


The Devil Sees A Therapist.

by Gevar



Series: What if the Devil is one of us? [2]
Category: Lucifer (Comic), Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-11-13 23:32:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11195763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gevar/pseuds/Gevar
Summary: The principal's son was murdered. A student framed. Chloe must clear his name. Lucifer wants no involvement.





	1. A New Day, A New Case.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Journalism Club don’t get visitors often.

There’s a knock on the door that breaks Chloe’s concentration. Ella Lopez twirls her head to the door in response. They share a moment of silence, then get to their feet. Together they walk to the door, Chloe Decker cracks it open. Wide enough for Ella and her to glimpse at their visitor.   

His hair, black and coarse, cropped to a crew cut. His swarthy skin reminds Chloe of an ancient walnut tree standing tall and proud during new moon. His eyes are russet, with flecks of gold in them. He’s dressed in grey slacks, a form-fitting blue dress t-shirt and exudes an air of ominous allure. “Is this the Journalism Club?”

Ella’s jaw hangs wide open. Chloe discreetly swallows her saliva.

The Journalism Club don’t get visitors often. Not the most popular club by a long shot. Its club members? A _grand_ total of three, including Chloe. Previous members had quitted after a month—too much work and little pay off. So a fresh face is rare. Especially when fresh face is tall, dark and handsome. Scratch that, a boy like him doesn’t come at all.

Ella’s the first to break the awkward silence. “Yes, I am. I mean, this is it. Club of Junior Journalists,” she stammers.

Her chin tilting upwards, Chloe quirks a brow at him. “And you are?”

“Stephen Johnson,” he replies, extending his hand out. His lips curling into a dimpled smile. His tenor voice is smooth as ocean waves crashing against the shore. Damn, he’s attractive. And distracting.

“Ella Lopez.” Ella manages to swat Chloe’s hand away, and shakes his hand a tad too long. A smile so wide that it might split her face.

“Chloe Decker,” she offers, giving his hand a quick shake. “What brings you here?”

“I’m looking for Dan Espinoza. He told me that the Journalism Club’s looking for new members,” Stephen explains, in clipped generalised American accent.

After Olivia dropped out for Frisbee Club, they agreed unanimously that they won’t add anymore members. On the grounds that they’ve been the driving force for the paper and they don’t need anyone else. Of course, Chloe blurts out, “We are?”

Ella elbows Chloe’s ribs, shushing her, and enthusiastically reiterates, “ _Yes_ , we are.”

“Hey, Stephen. So you decided to join us?” Dan’s voice interrupts them, he waves at Stephen from his desk. He joins them at the doorframe, grinning.

Stephen curtly nods, “Yes. I think I could gain a wealth of knowledge from my time with this club.”

Ella gets that mischievous twinkle in her doe-like brown eyes. “Cool. Now, since you’re a newbie. You get to do the fashion segment.” Without another word, she pivots on her heels and walks away. Ella returns to her desk, back to working on her newest article on the timeline of all Star Trek movies.

Stephen’s forehead creases, “Fashion segment?”

“Don’t worry, bud. I got your back,” Dan sympathetically says, curving an arm around Stephen’s broad shoulders. He pats Stephen twice, brings him into the room, “By the time you’re done with being a newbie and that segment—you could tell the difference between mandarin top and a jabot, a gillet from a moto, wedge heels and cone heels. You get the big picture.”

Stephen’s six-feet-plus frame hides another visitor. She’s dark-haired, with wavy shoulder-length hair. Porcelain skin, downturned brown eyes. Pretty. Just about Chloe’s height. Decked in a striped blouse and jeans. Chloe seen her around LUX’s dance floor a couple of times; Shelly Kaluta. 

Instead of staring at Chloe, Shelly sets her sight on Stephen. Her brows furrowed, red-stained lips pursed in thought. One brow nearly disappearing underneath her bangs.

Chloe smiles, “Are you here to join the Journalism Club too?”

No response. Shelly’s still eyeing Stephen—like she’s appreciating how firm Stephen’s butt looked in those tight grey slacks. Not that Chloe was paying any attention.

“Hello?” Chloe snaps her fingers in front of Shelly.

Shelly breaks her attention from Stephen, and stutters, “W-what did you say?”

Chloe repeats her question about her wanting to be the second newest recruit to the Journalism Club.

Shelly points at herself, arching her brow. Shaking her head, Shelly clarifies, “Me? Not a chance. I’m good with the Harry Potter Club.” She continues, “But I’m looking for Chloe Decker.”

Chloe raises her hand up. The corners of her lips quirking upwards, and she declares, “That’s me.”

“You’re the one who investigated that Delilah who died, right? And found her killer?”

Her heart swells with pride. Someone actually _read_ the paper. Well, specifically _her_ tribute to Delilah McCord. Not the Sci-Fi section, which was surprisingly popular. And definitely not the Drama Section—the section regarded the _best_ part of the paper. Chloe tries to stifle a victorious smile, but fails miserably. “Yeah, it was me. But it was actually a collaborative effort between several students.”

Shelly opens her bag, takes out a file folder and taps on the file’s cover. “I got a case for you,” she says, sombre. Then hugs the file tightly.

Chloe glances at the file in Shelly’s hand. Her interest peaks. People coming to the Journalism Club, demanding they take a case, never happen. As if Chloe’s running a private investigation agency, instead of the school’s paper.

“A case?”

[The last time Chloe Decker decided to play the detective-slash-journalist, she broke both legs. Though she’d swear that she only broke one leg when they first crashed against the tree. It’s one of the mysteries Chloe yet to solve. Not to mention, her father decided to take away her TV privileges when she continued to watch crime scene shows. So, she really has to think twice before diving into the case, all blind.]

Shelly’s head bobs up and down, producing a newspaper clip. Its headline; ‘Killer Kid Strangled Student’.

Chloe observes the name ‘Gordon Kaluta’ under the perpetrator’s portrait. The alleged student killer shared similar features with Shelly; same slope of nose, sharp dark eyes and messy bangs.

Shelly notices the unspoken question sitting on Chloe’s lips. “Yup. It’s my brother. He’s in jail, pending trial. The police said he killed Ramon Valdez,” Shelly mentions.

Valdez. That name strikes a chord in Chloe’s memory. She recalls seeing that name on the school’s staff committee board. As in Harry Valdez. Principal of Vertigo High.

“As in Principal Valdez’s son?”

“Uh huh.”

“When did this happen?” Chloe asks, attempting to recall if she read any crimes pertaining to Gordon Kaluta or Ramon Valdez.

“This was before you moved here.”

Her dad had several cases where the perpetrators are clearly guilty, but their family members and friends refused to believe in the fact the perpetrators are capable of committing heinous crimes. “Are you sure you’re not mistaken?”

Shelly releases an exasperated sigh. “I _know_ my brother. He’s dumb as a brick and you can call him all the words associated with a dumbass,” she pauses, pinching the bridge of her nose, “But he’s not a killer. He has a short fuse. But he’s not even violent.”

“I—I don’t,” Chloe trails off.

“He’s framed for a crime he didn’t commit,” Shelly adamantly insists.

Chloe somewhat believes in Shelly’s words. She can’t standby seeing a boy spending the rest of his formative years behind jail. Especially if he’s not guilty. At last, she concedes, “I can’t promise that I could prove your brother’s innocence. But I can try.”

Shelly smiles a small one. “That’s all I’m asking for,” she says, shoving the file into Chloe’s hand. “I’ve collected information on Ramon’s death.”

“You want us to keep this?”

She gestures a dismissive wave. “Take it. Those are copies of my notes.”

“You have any ideas who would want to frame your brother?”

“Try Philip Smoak,” Shelly suggests, then leaves the Journalism Club. Barely looking back at Chloe.

With that, Chloe Decker has a new mystery to solve. Time to bust out her ‘mystery board’ from underneath her bed and get her Veronica Mars thinking cap on. She has a name to clear out. And a jailed student to set free. 


	2. The Counsellor's In.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Changing jobs at the peak of her career isn’t what Linda Martin pictured herself to be in five years after graduating college.

Changing jobs at the peak of her career isn’t what Linda Martin pictured herself to be in five years after graduating college. It’s just that one minor blip and she’s fired from her cosy job. Okay, not exactly a _small_ blip—apparently insulting her boss to stick his dick to his ass counted as ground of dismissal from the practice.

The only job opening available, Linda took the offer without reading the fine print.

Here she is now. Moved back to the hometown she avoided since getting out in high school. Stuck in a high school known for all the wrong things. Saddled with the title ‘guidance counsellor’ to play therapy with the students. Terrific.

Principal Valdez had five students involved with an attempted murder by a fellow student’s stepdad to undergo mandatory therapy session. In order to satisfy the PTA Committee’s demand to ensure the safety and mental health of their children. Or something along that line.

So far, she had interviewed the three out of the five students. They had varying degrees of issues Linda could help with. Decker isn’t traumatized at all. Lopez is in mourning period for her wrecked car. Espinoza wouldn’t admit that he has trouble with imagining people wanting to drive him off the road.

But the final two students?

They’re putting up a unique challenge.

The student sits on the couch. Her spine straight. Shoulders squared. Her greyish eyes staring at Linda, unblinking. Her lips pressed into a flat line. Her face, an unreadable mask. Her hems of floral sundress splay across her thighs, arrange artfully like she’s a portrait came to life.

Except there’s a peculiar air to her stillness. A sense of detachment from everything—or anything, radiating from the unmoving student.

Linda dealt with problematic patients before. From disruptive behaviour down to uncooperative and questionable conducts, from teenagers to adults to the elderly. All sort of characters ever committed to getting therapy, either in accordance to their will or against it.  

Mazikeen Smith is _certainly_ different.

“So, Mazikeen. That’s unusual name,” Linda tries, staring at the student.

Mazikeen’s brow slightly arches in response. Her lips are still sealed shut. Her expression blank.

“That’s Jewish, am I right?” Linda suggests.

Again, no answer.

“So, that’s a no-yes? I’ll assume that’s a yes,” Linda says, answering her own question.

She’s young—from the sundress on her lithe form, to the sensible black boots she has on, to the unlined and blemish-free face. But youth eludes Mazikeen in a way Linda has yet to pinpoint. She has a face that earns trust without her exerting an effort to secure it. Yet everything about her makes Linda flinch in fear, makes her skin crawl with distrust.

Her eyes trail after Linda, as Linda crosses the room, towards the huge filing cabinet lining the wall. Mazikeen’s eyes are grey, like dark clouds before the coming of a thunderstorm. It’s guarded but forceful. Those eyes reaffirm Linda’s conflicted suspicion on Mazikeen.

Linda runs her fingers through the cabinet file, until she sees Smith, M. Taking the file out, she returns to her chair. Sitting across from the girl. Legs crossed, Linda glances down at her file, skimming through Mazikeen’s background.

Single mother working abroad. Involved in a horrific car accident at a young age, and left side of her face suffered paralysis. Linda notes the plastic surgery restored symmetrical to her face—almost flawlessly. Linda wouldn’t know of the paralysis, until she read it.

Currently she’s living with another student whose parents are working overseas. Nothing to pinpoint an abusive childhood—or abnormal events that could shape her into psychologically damaged girl.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Still doesn’t explain all these uneasy vibes Linda’s getting from Mazikeen.

Her musing cut short by the sudden alarm blaring from her phone. Linda picks up the phone, silencing the alarm. She sets it back to her desk. One hour went by quickly despite the silence.

“Well, _that_ concludes our session for today,” Linda chirps, mustering a jovial tone. She finds being friendly thaws the walls erected by her patients faster than she could with a neutral expression.

Mazikeen gathers her things off from the floor. Slings the strap across her shoulder, she stands to her feet. Opens her pace towards the door, her hand hangs over the doorknob and she turns to face Linda.

“Am I cleared?” Mazikeen questions, her words coming out like distorted vowels. Her accent sounds as if Linda’s listening to several continents talking, colliding at the same time, masking its actual origin.

“Not quite,” is all Linda says, not ‘I haven’t figure your issue yet’.

“Same time, next week?”

“You can drop by anytime.”

Mazikeen leaves her office, without any parting words.

Linda sighs.

[She _loves_ her new job. She loves her _new_ job. She has _bills_ to pay. A _temperamental_ cat to maintain and keep happy. She can’t be fired after the last disaster. She _needs_ themoney.]

* * *

LUX Club isn’t in business during the weekdays. The school barely uses the gym for sports—unless it’s that annual fitness examination. It provides a temporary reprieve for them. Rare solitude to be themselves.

Allows her to be Mazikeen of the Lilim. Mazikeen, the faithful servant. Mazikeen, the ‘supposed’ consort. Instead of Mazikeen Smith, student of Vertigo High.

She enters the gym—in time to catch the soft but fluttery tones of Franz Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2, quickly building into rapid and energetic melody. It descends into an erratic movement of high pitches as Lucifer’s hands fly over the keys and dwindling into sombre and manic tune.

The music dies as she reaches the stage. He slides off from the piano chair, walks down to the gym floor. He stops short at Mazikeen, tilting his head sideways. “So, I missed you during lunch,” Lucifer says. His rosy lips softens to a convivial smile, his eyes linger on the mangled part of her face.  

“I had to attend an appointment,” Mazikeen simply replies, matching the smile on his with her own.

They stride, side by side, towards the office at the back of the gym. She opens the door, he enters and she closes it behind her.

Lucifer breaks out two metallic flasks from the darkly varnished mahogany desk. He hands one over her and takes a sip from his drink. “They got us an actual therapist, I see. How was your therapy session then? Learnt anything _useful_ about yourself?”

“Absolutely illuminating,” she says, loaded with sarcasm. “You should try attending one.” Mazikeen catches the strong whiff of tequila. She swallows several sips of tequila, then closes the flask.

“Wasting an hour to talk about feelings is not the reason we attend school,” he scoffs, his forehead wrinkling in distaste. He leans back into the black swivel chair, stretches his legs over the desk. Folds his arms across his chest.

Mazikeen shrugs. “It’s mandatory, after the debacle with Delilah’s killer. We need to keep up with appearances,” she states the obvious.

“There is nothing to talk about,” Lucifer counters, his jaw muscles clench briefly and a smile slithers to his beautiful face, “I don’t lie, Mazikeen. You know that already, don’t you?” He wiggles his eyebrows seductively—in a way he’s both playful and serious.

“Unfortunately, I do.” She grins, lifts a brow at Lucifer. “Then don’t talk. Just like I did.”

“I’ll think about it,” he murmurs, steepling his fingers together.

In Lucifer’s vocabulary, it hardly amounts to a definite ‘yes’.

“As you say, My Lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Linda's first meeting with Mazikeen is unproductive. But who would guess Lucifer's avoiding therapy session with Linda?


	3. Deal With The Devil.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She seems to be a magnet for cases with people of LUX.

Reading the Gordon Kaluta case file takes only half an hour. Especially with Dan preoccupied mentoring Stephen, Chloe’s free to discuss the case with Ella sans any Dan’s interferences. Shelly’s impressive—that she provided them enough material that Chloe feels she knows Gordon inside out.

Gordon Kaluta was a year younger. Lives with his sister, Shelly, and an uncle. Moved here about three years ago. Part of the perpetually losing football team. Occasionally on loan to the basketball team.

“So, this guy supposedly _killed_ Ramon Valdez?” Ella questions, looking up from the paper at Chloe.

Chloe nods. “ _Strangled_ Ramon with his bare hands. Both were intoxicated,” she reads off from the file.

Gordon doesn’t stand out much. Had a couple strikes for lewd comments and truancy—no violence whatsoever. He was also a member of the LUX Club. Huh. She didn’t see that LUX Connection.

She seems to be a magnet for cases with people of LUX. Be it, Lucifer Morningstar, Mazikeen Smith or the late Delilah McCord. And now, Gordon Kaluta.

“There were no other suspects?” Ella asks, munching a bite off her chicken sandwich.

She spreads the papers around the table. Sifts through it until she finds a newspaper clipping of the incident. “Officially, no. Considering the crime was deemed as involuntary manslaughter. No one was there except them both. Not to mention, he was hammered that night.”

Ella rubs her neck, “So, why are we investigating this?”

“His sister doesn’t believe he did it. Saying he might talk big, act macho but not violent. Oh, and I quote ‘dumb as brick’. But—”

“Wait, his sister called him ‘stupid’?” Ella cuts her easily off, “But he’s in the Academic Decathlon team. Or rather was.”

“He was?”

Ella nods. “Yup. His sister also included a list of the Academic Decathlon team members. Gordon’s name was there, as well as Philip Smoak.” Tapping at one of the papers, she passes the list to Chloe.

“Philip Smoak?”

“Yup. He’s the leader now, replacing Ramon Valdez after he died.”

“Well, that’s the guy Shelly told us to check. You know him?”

“Philip? He was Ramon’s best friend. Other than that, not much. The Aca-Decathlon team is very tight-knit. If you’re not in the team, they won’t spare you a time.”

The list isn’t long—just six names. Two names are out; one jailed and the other dead. The remaining are long-time members since they established the team. There’s a recruitment flyer peeking out from between the papers.

Ella points her sandwich at her. Cocking her head sideways, a brow raised. “You got that look on your face that says ‘you have a plan’. Spill it out.”

The minimum number of the team is six. She needs to get close to Philip Smoak. That’s her chance. She’ll be part of the team. Easy.

Tugging the corners of her lips is a smile, Chloe holds up the pink flyer at Ella. “This.”

“You want to join them? Like you’re sure about this?”

Chloe understands Ella’s apprehension. After that one colossal dumb idea with Mister Gilbert—and Ella’s beloved car was the unforeseen collateral damage—Ella’s less receptive to any of Chloe’s ideas.

“Why not?” Chloe says, eyeing the flyer’s requirement. Seems easy enough.

“They’re pretty strict. Your GPA has to be 3.5 before they even consider your application. Believe me, I tried before when I first started out. Unless,” Ella’s voice trails off. She pulls her laptop close, wiping breadcrumbs against a napkin.

Her only idea being put to bed before it could even bloom. Her score betrayed her. Never had she thought one day, having an excellent grade will help or break her case. Like now. Damn it.

“Unless what?” Chloe asks, drinking down her coffee.

Ella works on the keyboard, clacking away and shifts her attention back to Chloe. “Unless you get Lucifer Morningstar to join on your behalf.”

Chloe nearly spits out her coffee at Ella. “ _Him_? As in Prada suit-wearing, Valentino loafers’ fanatic, smug teenager with a devil’s name.”

“Yup. He’s actually smart. With average GPA score of 3.89.”

Chloe opens her mouth to reply, then closes it. She blinks twice. Lets that realisation—of Lucifer Morningstar _possibly_ a bonafide genius—sinks in. “Are you serious?”

Ella snorts, faux-derisively. “ _No_.”

“How did you know this?”

Ella shrugs her shoulders, like it’s not a big deal of what she says next. “Hacking into the school’s student database isn’t hard if you have the right codes.”

“Damn.”

“Exactly.”

She can’t seem to avoid getting a case without Lucifer Morningstar being attached to it in some ways. If Ella’s right, Chloe’s GPA could barely qualifies for the recruitment. She’s not under 2.99, but not higher than 3.10 either.

[Somehow, going to Lucifer Morningstar to help with her new case feels like Chloe’s making a deal with the devil. Even though, it’s for a good cause. Now, she has to ‘girl’ up and march to Lucifer and get him to say ‘yes’ by any means necessary.]

* * *

Mazikeen isn’t surprise to see Chloe Decker rapping her knuckles against the gym’s door. In fact, Mazikeen thinks, she has an unhealthy obsession with LUX Club.

“Hey, Maze—” Chloe stutters, with a smile that seems strained on her face. She quickly amends, “—ikeen. Mazikeen. So, is Lucifer around?” She cranes her neck, trying to look pass Mazikeen’s shoulders.

Mazikeen doesn’t disturb Lucifer if he wishes not to. Not without a good reason. And Chloe Decker doesn’t measure up for their definition of ‘immediate action’. She utters, “Is he anticipating your arrival?”

“I don’t think so,” Chloe replies, without letting Mazikeen getting a word in, “I really need to see him. Like right now. You see, I got this—” She rambles on, trying to push her way into gym.

The mortal doesn’t budge Mazikeen from her ground. This is child’s play. She will not tire easily.

Chloe grunts, attempting to shove Mazikeen—with her full weight on Mazikeen, she sidesteps to allow the blonde entry to the gym. Chloe stumbles on her footing, nearly plants her face on the polished gym floor.

Mazikeen meets curious luminescent ochre eyes. A ghostly smirk plays on her lips. “We have a visitor,” she announces, closes the door behind her.

Chloe quickly stands to her feet. Dusting dirt off from her thighs, she tosses a look over her shoulder at Mazikeen. Flips her hair at Mazikeen, before walking up to Lucifer and whispers, “Can we talk in private?”

Lucifer eyes Chloe with interest. Both hands stuff in his trousers’ pockets. “Why all the sudden request of privacy? There are no secrets between Mazikeen and I, don’t be shy to tell us. However, let’s have a talk in the office.”

Mazikeen walks ahead of them. Prepares soda for Chloe and the usual non-alcoholic Chardonnay White Wine for Lucifer. Sets the drinks on the desk, then she stands next to the cabinet, against the wall. Mazikeen cracks Sun Tzu’s Art of War open and read. Not a single sound made—no one will notice her except when she moves. She does not breathe.

“So, to what we owe your sudden presence here?” questions Lucifer, motioning at the newly added chair. He takes his place at the swivel chair, sips from his white wine.

Chloe forces a nervous smile on her face. Her hand absentmindedly gesturing in the air. “There’s a case I’m working on now.”

He lift both brows at her. His lips, a flat line. His displeasure shimmering beneath his lazy façade. “And are you here to _accuse_ me of yet another crime?”

“ _No_ ,” she protests too quickly. Tips of Chloe’s ears turning a bright shade of red. She blows a noisy breath out. “It’s about Gordon Kaluta.”

Lucifer shakes his head lightly. “Gordon Kaluta? Doesn’t ring a bell.”

Chloe describes Gordon to jog his memory. Mazikeen remembers Gordon well—unkempt black hair, dark rings underneath his eyes and has an uncouth mouth. It’s been a while since Mazikeen seen him around LUX. Mazikeen flips a new page on her book.

“Ah, yes. _Him_. I presume he’s dead, seeing how you have acquire a habit to march straight to LUX in the event of any death in this school.”

“What? No, he’s _not_ dead,” Chloe snaps, “He’s alive. In jail.” She pauses, inhales deeply. “In case you haven’t notice, deaths at Vertigo High always seemed to be connected to LUX Club.”

“Coincidence,” Lucifer simply answers.

“Very convenient to be coincidences,” Chloe snorts, crossing her arms defiantly. She closes her eyes. Then rushes her words in a single breath, “I-I’m here to ask for your help. I _need_ you to be part of the Academic Decathlon team.” Looking physically ill, as she mentions the words ‘help’ and ‘need’ together.

He mulls her words over in a few seconds. He swirls his glass in a clock-wise movement, languid.

“So, what do you say?” Chloe asks, hope swimming in her blue eyes. It’s a pity to see that hope crushed.

Knowing his answer before it leaves his throat, half of a smirk twisting Mazikeen’s lips. His deep voice mutters, “My answer is no, Decker.”

Chloe jumps to her feet. Her eyes widen in exasperation. Nearly spills the soda on her pants. “Why?”

Lucifer shrugs. “Why should I?”

“B-but he’s part of your LUX family!” Chloe rebukes—it’s a flimsy excuse. Lucifer would never buy such reason. Appealing to compassion he doesn’t have, that’s bound to fail.

“Whether he’s a patron or a member of the LUX Club, it is not my concern.”

With that, Chloe storms off from the office. Not before she finishes her drink. Noticing Mazikeen standing at the wall, Chloe thanked her for the drink and slammed the door behind her.

He glances up from his glass, speaks into the white wine. “I can see the disapproval written on your face, Mazikeen. Do speak up your mind.”

She closes her book, slips it back into her bag. Mazikeen moves her head from side to side. Sets her eyes on the flame-haired angel. “There’s nothing to say.”

“Come on, Mazikeen. You know I value your opinion above everything else,” he replies, soft and tender, armed with his charming grin. “Why should I involve myself with the human’s affair?”

“You are fond of this school,” she offers. 

Lucifer deflects, “The school ranks the worst among all public schools in the entire state.”

“Then you are fond of LUX. Chloe Decker’s death will ensure the closing down of this school. And this school is the only one that allows us almost freely reign over its students. Without the School Board poking too close to the nature of the LUX Club and its patrons.”

She adds, “And this provides you a valid reason to prolong your avoidance with the therapist.”

He sighs—for show. But a smile slithers onto his face, brief before it fades. “You make a _compelling_ argument, Mazikeen.”

“You asked for my _honest_ opinion,” she says, grinning.

“I did. Anything else?” Lucifer quizzes, lighting a cigarette between his fingers.

“I will say, I somewhat miss him working at the LUX. Good workers are hard to come by these days.”

“Very well then, relay to Miss Decker that I will be on board for her plans to liberate the framed student and find the real killer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chloe learns that working together with Lucifer is not a bed of roses, especially when he ruins her carefully thought out plans without batting an eyelid.


	4. Operation Kill Phill.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s so going to regret this partnership with Lucifer Morningstar. Chloe can feel it in her guts.

Chloe had it all figure out. The first part of her plan aptly titled ‘Operation Kill Phil’—which has nothing to do with a literal killing of Philip Smoak, but she watched Kill Bill the night before and found the pun too good to pass up—was to get Lucifer into the team. Chloe acting as his personal assistant, goes where her boss goes. Thus allowing her to get close to the Aca-Decathlon team without needing to take the exams. And risk being rejected.

From there, it’s all about getting to know Philip Smoak. To investigate if he truly has a motive to kill Ramon. Philip comes from the subset of people that could kill undetected. It’s terrifyingly creepy and scary, just thinking about Philip or anyone from the Aca-Decathlon team is capable of being a serial killer.

Lucifer didn’t even need audition for a spot. He’s given a special pass. A spot on the team secured by his grade and name. All he did really, was to show his face at Philip. Philip offers his hand, they shake and Lucifer’s a member.

[Smooth sailing, isn’t it? Think again. She’s _so_ going to regret this partnership with Lucifer Morningstar. Chloe can feel it in her guts.]

Philip Smoak isn’t far off from the good-looking scale. An inch shy off the six feet mark. Slender but muscular built. Curly blonde hair and a pair of brown eyes. Wears his polo t-shirt tucked around his waist, his shoes are expensive suede and his pants are spotless clean.

Lucifer’s still miles ahead in the handsome department—given that he wears tailored suit for goodness’ sake. Despite the rather unfortunate and recent choice to dye his hair platinum blond. Not that it matters.

Philip carves a pleasant smile on his face. “And who is she?”

Before Chloe could reply, Lucifer interrupts, “No one of importance.”

That son of a bitch.

Philip turns to Chloe, studying her for a moment. “Right. If you want to join the Academic Decathlon team, please leave your application here. And the exams will be administered shortly,” Philip announces, all formal.

“Oh, she’s not applying to be a member,” interjects a familiar voice. “She’s here as the ‘study buddy’. You guys need an extra person to deal with the menial tasks while you prepare for the competition.”

“Ah, Shelly. She comes with your recommendation?”

Shelly glances at Chloe, sneaks a fast wink at her. “Yeah. What do you say, Philip? You don’t have a study buddy since I left.”

Philip seems to consider Shelly’s words. Then nods, “Fine. What’s your name?”

“Chloe Decker,” she supplies.

“Your first task to make sure Lucifer Morningstar gets what he wants. That should be easy, right?” Philip makes a shooing motion at her, then points at Lucifer. “Off you go.”

She stalks off to find that bastard. Chloe’s going to give him a piece of her mind. Finds him at the registration desk, chatting with Shelly. Catches snippets of their conversation.

“Did she send you here, Spera?” Lucifer questions, raising a brow at her.

Shelly shrugs and smirks. “I wish I could kiss and tell. But my lips are sealed. I’m sorry.”

“Are you going to childmind me, then?”

Shelly snorts. “You? Nope. You can take care of yourself. I’m here to make sure someone gets the girl into the team. I have to fly. I’m needed elsewhere.”

By the time she reaches the desk, Shelly already left. Lucifer’s standing by the desk, overlooking the applications. Chloe latches at his forearm, yanking him to a corner.

“What the _freaking_ hell, Lucifer?” Chloe screeches, “You’re supposed to stick to the script, remember? When anyone ask, I’m your PA. We went over this three times!”

“I agreed to assist you in all of your plans to catch the villain, except declaring you as my personal assistant. If there is such position, it’s not yours,” he counters, his voice monotonous and cold. His icy electric blue eyes glowering at her.

Chloe won’t lie. His reply freezes her tongue, twists her frustration into dread. Punches the air out from her lungs. The awareness of him towering over her frame serves to breed terror in her veins. She releases her grip of his forearm.

“N-next time, when you don’t agree to some part of my plans, t-tell me. So I can work something out to your liking,” she retorts, hoping he wouldn’t notice the slight tremble in her voice.

“Now, you’re in the team as you wanted. Shouldn’t you endear yourself to Philip if you want to learn the true him?” Lucifer says.

“I’m not the only one who has to do the sucking up to him,” she fires back, “You’re supposed to be his new best friend.”

For a fleeting moment or two, Chloe’s desire to clout him with a frying pan returns.

But when he does that thing—half of his face curling into a playful smile. “As a matter of fact, I believe I’m on the path to becoming one,” he replies, in a deep and smooth like silk voice. That sexy British accent.

Her anger disappears quickly than a train losing its steam. And her knees almost buckle a little. She rolls her eyes.

“Whatever.”

* * *

Like she said, the minute Lucifer derailed her from being his PA, the further she slides down the proximity scale to Philip.

The status of a “study buddy” has Chloe running around the club—fetching test papers, checking out heavy textbooks, preparing coffee—with no time to chat with the other members.

Fortunately, that doesn’t stop Chloe from gathering the necessary information about them. She has to at least know what they like, so she doesn’t blow her chances with them. But when she’s there in the room, she’s practically invisible to them. Until the moment of need arises and then everybody knows her name.

The newest recruit via the old fashion way—multitude exams done and graded—is German exchange student, Ludwig Hasse. The only one who actually smiles at Chloe. Always on his tablet, reading comics. Doesn’t talk much. When he does, it’s in German.

The most senior members, aside from Philip, are couple Mark Milligan and Gina Godfrey. Chloe tends to find them in two moods; either kissing each other on the verge of having sex on the study table or they barely look at each other, too focus on studying.

Laura Chang has earphones on. She tends to hum and sometimes outright sings as she studies. When she’s not hitting the books, she’s consumed with arts and crafts.

Dinesh Vickneswaran seems to be always missing from the study table. Instead, he hovers around the refreshment table, searching for snacks. He rarely talks, since he’s too busy munching on food.

Chloe’s amazed by their collective ability to devour the refreshment in matter of minutes.  

This is the third time Chloe refills the bowl with potato chips. Dinesh’s already at the table, eyeing the food with interest. He’s alone. Away from the group. Chloe could use this precious moment to subtly conduct an interview.

“You’re Dinesh, right?”

Dinesh’s head bobs up and down. “And you’re the new study buddy,” he states, oblivious to Chloe.

“You know Gordon Kaluta?”

Another nod. “Birdbrain Gordon,” Dinesh murmurs. A soft chuckle escapes from his lips.

“So, you’ve been with them before Gordon.”

Dinesh makes a non-committal noise, nodding. His eyes darting intensely from the potato chips to tuna sandwiches.

“Dinesh, there you are,” Lucifer chimes in, raising his hand high. Dinesh tears his attention from the food to Lucifer. A smile forms on Dinesh’s face. Chloe’s all forgotten. She’s invisible.

“I’m told you have an extensive collection of books on Mesopotamian epics.”

Dinesh nods, enthusiastic. “I do,” he replies, then frowns, “But it’s in my locker. Most of it. I have a few on my desk.”

“Then, what are you waiting for, Decker?”

“Huh?” Chloe blurts out, puzzled.

Lucifer tips his chin at the door. One dark brow cockily raised, a smirk resting on his lips. “Didn’t you hear Dinesh? His books are in his lockers. As a ‘buddy’, you’re bound—”

“—to gather all the necessary study materials, regardless of my current location,” Chloe hisses. She could practically recite the stupid study buddy oath with her eyes close. Lucifer never fails to remind her of her oath.

She stomps out from the study hall, the official club room, towards Dinesh’s locker. In her hands, are his locker’s combination, the couple’s reading list and Laura’s hook-up note to the locker next to Dinesh’s.

[Stupid oath—it’s not even a cool oath. Stupid rules—what kind of club that have not-too bright students as slaves, Chloe certainly feels like one. Stupid Lucifer—for ruining her plans. The things she do for justice.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there is Spera from the Vertigo Comics. So, probably anyone who reads the comics would know who she is. If not, read to find out.


	5. Study Buddy's Woes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been two days since she infiltrated the Aca-Decathlon team. Two days. Already Chloe wanted to burn the club to the ground. Along with the club, Lucifer Morningstar.

It’s been two days since she infiltrated the Aca-Decathlon team. _Two_ days. Already Chloe wanted to burn the club to the ground. Along with the club and its members, she wants to watch Lucifer Morningstar crispy-fried.

Ella Lopez, the ever patient friend, pats her hands sympathetically. “Don’t burn the club down just yet,” she pauses, rummaging through the files scattered over her desk. “I managed Gordon’s grades for you. He failed a couple of subjects. He’s not even above the 2.75 mark,” she says, flips to the wanted page and thrusts the file to Chloe.

“He’s that bad?” Chloe reads the file. Boy, Ella isn’t exaggerating. She could see why Gordon’s admission to the club seems impossible. Dinesh’s score is exactly 2.99, yet every time he takes the grading exams, he scored higher than the average best the golden number of 3.5—Gordon failed _all_ the mock exams.

Ella returns her sight on the laptop, clacking the keyboard. “Yeah. How on earth did he manage to get into the club?”

“That’s a good question.”

“And I did a little digging into Philip Smoak. He’s actually the son of a high profile chemist. His half-siblings won all sort of science-related competitions. Consistently first place.”

Chloe looks up from Gordon’s grades, staring at Ella. Vertigo High isn’t a big school. A decent size school were everyone knows your name—or at least your face. Chloe’s new, but she does her best to make sure she memorise her fellow students. “His siblings? How come I never heard of other Smoaks?”

Ella pulls out her phone, scrolling through Google images. She holds her phone, so Chloe could see Philip’s half-siblings. Mostly dark-haired, with matching dark green blazers—a local newspaper article about their academic accomplishments.

“Firstly, they’re not Smoaks. They took their father’s name, Goodwin. Philip and the Goodwins shared a mother, Emily. They’re way older than us. Like ten years older. And they don’t go to school here. Prep school,” Ella explains, slipping her phone back into her pocket.

“Isn’t it curious that Philip’s here instead of a prep school?” Chloe questions, her fingers tentatively drumming on her chin.

“Give me some time, I’ll try to see what I can do on Philip’s financial background.”

“Whose financial background?” Dan asks, his voice’s sudden appearance freezes them for a second.  

Chloe’s eyes immediately snaps to the door, sees Dan. Ella shuffles the papers and folders into one messy pile and tries to shove all of it into the drawer.

“I asked Ella to come up with a mock financial statements. For Home Econ,” Chloe smoothly lies. Ella offers a rapid nod.

Dan narrows his eyes at them both. “Oh.”

“So, the newbie?” Chloe prompts, distracting Dan. Allows Ella some precious seconds to successfully slam the drawer close.

“He’s really popular with the cheerleaders. I mean, they’re organising a mini fashion show for him,” Dan replies, envy seeping out from his tone. But his lips quirk slightly upwards, amused.

Ella pipes up, “He got a bunch of girls giving him a fashion show?”

Dan shrugs, chuckling. “Something about wanting him to not miss a thing when it comes to high fashion and all things haute couture.”

Chloe’s phone buzzes on the table. The notification’s header reads STUDY BUDDY alert. Chloe releases a long suffering sigh. “I got to go. The geniuses are beeping for more books.”

* * *

Linda Martin can’t decide whether Mazikeen Smith is avoiding therapy. Or _secretly_ crying for help.

She comes, without a sound, into Linda’s office. Sits on the couch. And stares at the walls, without batting her eyelids. Right on time. Never a second too early, or too late.

“Is there anything exciting today, Mazikeen?” Linda asks, as usual. Her clipboard lays on her lap. Her thumb clicking the pen once. Maybe today will be the day she chips away a bit of Mazikeen’s armour.  

Mazikeen turns to Linda, shakes her head. The rest of her are rigid. Like a soldier anticipating an attack.  

[Or today’s the day Linda will _quit_ her ‘guidance counsellor’ job. And decide a career change. Write that fantasy novel she always wanted but lacked the will power to sit down and type the words.] 

Linda tries again, “R-right. So, you want to talk?”

“No.”

At least, she’s verbally responding to Linda. Rather than having her body speaks for her.

“Do you want to do something while you’re here?” Linda asks.

There’s no hesitation in her reply, “Yes.”

“And that would be,” Linda drags the last syllable longer into a question.

One hand reaching into her sling bag, Mazikeen produces several books and her notepad. She gestures at her books; the answer’s pretty clear.

It isn’t much, but Linda thinks this little detail—that idleness is not one of Mazikeen’s traits—is a piece to the puzzle that is Mazikeen Smith.  

“Okay, I’m going to leave you and your homework alone,” Linda replies, rising to her feet from the armchair. “I’ll be here, if you want to talk,” she adds.

Mazikeen doesn’t avert her gaze from the books.

[Today, Linda Martin returns to her desk, catalogues a new piece of information on Mazikeen to her notepad. She’ll stay here, providing guidance to Vertigo High’s students—either those who need her or don’t—and she’ll return to work the next day. She’s warming up to her cosy office anyway.]

* * *

“So, I got six books on the exciting times of that crazy Roman dude, more coffee, more chips and more of everything,” Chloe announces into the room. Her view partially blocked by the large grocery bag, she shifts her face slightly to the left.

That’s strange. Usually they swarm around Chloe even before she has the chance to enter the room. Like hungry smart piranhas. Grabbing the things they requested, without so much thanking Chloe. This time, she makes it all the way to the table. Alone.

“Where’s everyone?” Chloe asks, taking out the items from the grocery bag. Tosses a look over her shoulders at the study table. Only Ludwig’s there.

“It’s alright, Ludwig. You don’t need to answer,” Chloe says, cutting him off before he tries to speak German.

Ludwig curtly nods, his lips twitching to his usual polite smile. He returns his attention to his tablet. Bobbing his head to his earphones.

Chloe puts all the items back to its appropriate place. Content with the silence.

“Laura’s down at the biology lab, replicating a study she read,” Gina’s sultry voice offers, her breath tickles Chloe’s neck.

Chloe flinches, nearly drops one of thick textbooks on her feet. Her heart hammering against her ribcage.

“She will fail, the sooner she realises she’s using wrong chemicals,” Mark whispers into the shell of her right ear.

Chloe twirls on her feet, facing the couple. Her chin tilting up, to see a two pairs of eyes—of blue and brown—staring at her. Curiosity and mischievous intertwining, shining in those eyes.

It’s one thing to have Gina to invade her personal space. It’s another when Mark joins along. They’re way too close to her face. Like inches away from her lips. Chloe takes several steps back—an arm’s length distance. Hugging the books tighter, as if they could shield her from the couple.

Chloe had imagined once on how she’d approach Gina and Mark for an interview. None of those scenarios involved them looming over her. 

Or cornering her with those predatory looks.

Chloe notices there’s a slight resemblance between them and Mazikeen. Not in the sense they looked alike each other. Just that feeling of eerie radiating from them. Okay, appearance wise—they might be a teensy bit similar to Lucifer and Mazikeen—siting firmly above average looks.

Mark Milligan and Gina Godfrey are one of those high school couples that has looks and brains. The students that you don’t often find in clubs like the Aca-Decathlon club.

Like Gina, she’s all legs and isn’t afraid to flaunt her assets; legs and those perky boobs. Curious blue eyes and lustrous dark blonde hair. Smells like a walking and breathing wet teenage boy dream. Not cheap sex, but intoxicating temptation.

Mark is tall and thin without muscle definition to fill out his loose t-shirt. His complexion’s paler than white plaster, that his bluish-green veins are prominent on his face and neck. Yet all that veins is working for him—he’s attractive in a chemical sense.   

Gina smiles, her blue eyes set on Chloe. “Dinesh is down at the cafeteria.”

“He’d improved his scores on language, if he keeps himself off from the snack table every once in a while,” Mark says, grinning a Cheshire smile.

“But who would compete in the Varsity category if his scores are close to ours,” Gina retorts, rhetorical. Her tone, light and teasing. 

Mark reaffirms, “ _So_ true. He’s better than Gordon.”

Gina makes a sweeping gaze around the room, then informs, “Philip and Lucifer are working on a science project for the upcoming YIIC.”

“The what?”

“Young Innovative Ideas Competition,” Mark replies, rolling his eyes.

Chloe read up on the YIIC—pronounced ‘yik’ by the members—in one of the study buddy manuals. One of the most important competitions that each member must achieved the top 5 to prove their worth in the team and to earn a free weekend in a luxurious spa. To win first place, essentially seals your fate as the Alpha in the group.

Chloe frowns. Damn, Lucifer’s advancing faster than she is in Operation Kill Phil. “They’re working on a project together? I thought YIIC don’t have group category. Only individual ones.”

They nod simultaneously. Did Chloe mention how freaky it is to see Gina and Mark are in perfect synch? The _same_ tilt of their head, in the _same_ direction, with the same _sexy_ expressions.

“It was the same with Philip and Ramon—” Gina’s voice trails off, fingering her collarbone.

“—back when Ramon’s not dead,” Mark finishes, thumbing his lower lip.

Now, Chloe’s getting somewhere. This is it. The opening she needed. The glimpse of the secretive friendship of Ramon Valdez and Philip Smoak. “That they’re always working on the same project together?”

Gina answers, “Philip and Ramon were best friends,” and pauses.

Mark picks up where her words hang in the air, “But their competitiveness is a whole lot different level than ours.”

“Tell me more,” Chloe requests, finding herself being drawn closer to them. As in she willingly walks up to them. Eagerly nodding for scraps of information they’d be parting like they’re handing out gold bars.

[ _Snap out of it, Chloe_. Don’t stare at their lips—or how the lighting makes them even prettier than before. What’s wrong with her? Why is she thinking about sex? Goddamnit, she has a crime to solve.]

They exchange looks, then shrug together.

[Nothing sexual about that action—but, but it makes Chloe want to strip her clothes and ask them to have her right now, right here on the study table.]

“They measured their friendship in the number of awards they won. The one with the most awards, is the best among the two. Hence, the leadership of the club should fall to that person.”

“That’s how this club’s politics is run?” Chloe stammers, gulping down her saliva. Her eyes sliding down from Gina’s face to her collarbone—Gina has a lovely collarbone.

“It’s not perfect. But it works. We don’t want the leadership. We just want to be in this club,” Mark states, his forehead wrinkling and lips curving into a playful smirk.

[Chloe wonders if his lips would taste the same as Gina’s, since they’re a couple and spent most of their time latching to each other’s embrace. Not that she wants to know. Because, because—that’s ridiculous.]

Gina adds, “Not just our club. Ramon and Philip were part of several other clubs. Ramon used to be the president of those clubs. You don’t need to be a genius to see that Philip took over all Ramon’s positions in their other clubs, including the debate team.”

“Do you think that Gordon killed Ramon?” Chloe questions, shaking _those_ thoughts away. She shoots a quick glance at Ludwig. He’s now snoring, with his head on his arms. Chloe’s the only one feeling antsy at them—whatever’s happening with them now.

“He doesn’t see eye to eye with Ramon. Thought Ramon was too condescending. Insulted his intelligence more than once,” Mark replies, his brown-eyed attention rests on Gina. Runs a hand through his dark chestnut hair.

“Philip’s the only reason how he got into the club and why he stayed. Ramon wanted to kick his ass. Ever the peacekeeper between them two,” says Gina, shifting her blue—almost purplish—eyes to Mark.

“What about Philip?”

Neither Mark nor Gina responds to Chloe’s prompt of an explanation. Instead, Gina eyes Mark, almost hungrily. Mark licks his lower lip in that sensual way—Chloe finds herself blatantly staring. Without shame. The tips of her ears burn bright red. Heat creeping up from her neck to her face. Gina caresses Mark’s cheek, runs her fingertips along his jawline.

[That’s incredibly hot. It feels like Chloe’s watching porn live—except it’s not. It’s just Gina touching Mark’s face. Chloe swears, for a second, she thought Mark’s brown eyes turned purple. It’s still brown.]

“It takes a lot to piss Philip. Especially the kind of rage needed to kill someone. But who knows? Philip’s a private person,” Gina mutters.

“Ah, Decker,” Lucifer calls out, jerking her out from staring. Chloe turns around to Lucifer motioning at her to come close.

“I need you to run a couple of errands for me. Be discreet, and allow no one to deter you from your task,” Lucifer says, passing her a folded piece of paper. Then shoos her out from the room.

Chloe glances down at the list. No books, no materials. Just an instruction to ‘look busy and be secretive’. Well now, at least she has time to catch up with her overdue reports.

[Also note to self; never be in the same room with Gina and Mark ever again.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone could guess that Gina's a succubus and Mark's an incubus, pat yourself congratulations. Hence, Chloe being all that hot and bothered with them.


	6. Patterns and Dinners.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a while, Chloe observes a pattern with them.

Nothing could be more boring than being forced to time the geniuses as they take their mock exams. However, she’s the study buddy—tasked with impartiality on grading their paper. Apparently it’s one of the many ‘sacred’ duties of study buddy to monitor the club members when they’re in their ‘zone’.

After a while, Chloe observes a pattern with them. Dinesh finishes first, hardly checks his answers twice. Laura spends at least half an hour double-checking her works. Lucifer drums his fingers on the table, waiting to pass the time. Gina doodles on her paper. Mark uses his extra time to nap. Ludwig chews on his pencil’s eraser. Philip licks his thumb before flipping each page.

Even their scores has a pattern to it. It’s not always noticeable. Take chemistry; Philip’s the best, Dinesh’s the lowest, and Lucifer’s third highest. Ludwig needs a little help with his biology.

And she picks up these little facts on them. Like how Gina and Mark excel in history, writing in details that seems plausible. Gina says the ancient texts back it up. If only Chloe could read Hebrew, let alone ancient Hebrew.

Ludwig, despite his limitation in speaking English, easily tackles languages like fish to water. Dinesh is a mathematics expert. Laura has high hopes of making it big as a lawyer, both domestic and international circuit. Philip’s extremely proud of his accomplishments in chemistry. Biology and physics are Lucifer’s strongest subjects.

When their time’s up, she collects the papers. Grades them based on the answer sheets. Dinesh goes straight for the snacks. Mark and Gina discuss their answers. Ludwig takes out his tablet, returns to his comics. Laura plays a quick game of Pokémon on her Nintendo DS. Philip hovers around her. Lucifer’s content with sitting in his seat, gazes at the windows—his face unreadable.

The other leaves the club—to freshen their minds up. Their results can wait for tomorrow. They’ve done tons of these—the excitement of anticipating their scores died out the first three mock exams. All except Philip. Lucifer still has LUX Club to run.

But sometimes, the pattern changes. Lucifer’s slowly catching up to Philip’s scores for chemistry. Last week, he scored the highest mark for chem. They chalked it up to Lucifer being lucky. After all, Lucifer himself said he based his answers on his gut feeling.

It’s been two weeks in a row, Lucifer took over Philip’s best score.

“Are you done?” Philip asks, peering over her shoulder.

Chloe nods. “This is the last one,” she tells him, tapping on the paper. She sets the papers down on the desk, pushing her chair backwards.

Philip picks the stack up, gripping them tightly. “You’ve graded everything, just as like in the guidelines we gave you?”

Philip’s so touchy—and bossy—when it concerns the grading rules. Chloe resists rolling her eyes. “Yeah.”

“Exactly the same?”

“ _Yes_.”

Chloe gathers her things, and says, “If you don’t mind, I want to get home before it’s late.” She forces a smile, and heads for the door.

She’s halfway towards the corridor’s end, when she realises she left her water bottle on her desk. Races back to the club. The club’s door is partially open. She walks up to the door, hand on the doorknob. Hears stuff crashing against the floor. As if someone grabs the nearest thing they could find and starts throwing them around the room.  

Chloe cracks the door slightly open. Sees Philip, his composure cracked, surrounded by fallen test papers.

He stares at his feet—his eyes transfixed to the floor. His face red with anger. He exhales a noisy breath out, collects the scattered papers in eerie calmness. Stacks them nicely on the table.

That answers it. Whether Philip Smoak has enough rage to kill a person. He does indeed—especially chemistry-related.

Her water bottle, she doesn’t need it now. Chloe turns her heels away. And leaves in haste, once again.

Philip has the brains to pull off a murder without difficulties. But what are his motives to kill Ramon Valdez? If so, how did he kill Ramon and frame Gordon Kaluta? Chloe need some solid evidence. What’s the use of theories but she can’t substantiate them?

There must be something in the official reports she missed.

* * *

A speck of dust mots the spoon, Mazikeen thumbs the dust away. Familiar footsteps tapping against the polished mahogany floor, languid and confident. She doesn’t avert her gaze, fixes a misplaced silverware on the dining table.

“So, how’s the plan to trap the real mastermind coming along?” Mazikeen questions, heading for the wine cabinet. Procures two wine glasses from the shelves. And a bottle of Chateau Margaux circa 2009.

“ _Swimmingly_ well,” Lucifer sighs, sinking into the dining chair. Props an arm on the table, his palm supporting his chin. He eyes the table brief, and his attention slides from the nape of her neck down to her curving spine. A satisfied smirk sneaks on to his handsome face.

The oven rings, beckoning for their attention. The scent of a well-done steak permeating through the air. Mazikeen pops the wine’s cork open, smooth and expertly with her thumb. Fills the wine glasses, full to the brim.

Lucifer gets to his feet, and murmurs, “Allow me.”

It’s almost like a second nature to her Lilim’s temperament; reading Lucifer Morningstar. To know when she could be blunt, to know when not to push her limits with him. And yet, a thousand upon thousand years, he’s still an enigma Mazikeen’s drawn to and unable to decrypt. All she takes away from him, from her servitude to him; Lucifer Morningstar’s a rarity—and an oddity among his angelic siblings, leagues ahead from the demons festering in Hell.

“And yet you’re not satisfied,” she points out, nonchalantly. She twirls the glass, wine sloshing against the glass’s rim in between her fingers. And tastes the red wine on her tongue.

The smirk on his face falters, he shrugs. His silence speaks for itself. Bare-handed, he opens the oven’s door, takes out the tray and sets it on the table. Cuts a slice of steak for her. Another for himself.  

She cocks her head sideways. “I take it that it’s not enough to dazzle the judges?”

Lucifer scoffs, feigning offense at her doubt of his abilities. “Don’t be silly, Mazikeen. It has more than enough to impress the judges.” He makes his way around the table, placing her plate in front of Mazikeen. Retreats to the other end of the rectangle dining table. He settles on his seat, starts to eat.

“I sense there’s a _but_ ,” Mazikeen remarks, fingering the appropriate silverware. And cuts her steak into smaller pieces. She sticks her fork into a piece of meat, and chews slowly.

Dinner’s a silent affair, for most part. But tonight is a step up from their usual comfortable silence. Mazikeen’s words linger in the air, uncertainty hovering around them. With their steaks all consumed, and Lucifer smears his finger through the gravy. Sucks his gravy-stained index finger, and glances at Mazikeen.

“It won’t draw him like a moth to flame. It’s too mundane. Although what I’ve prepared will astonish simple-minded folks. Philip Smoak is not part of the ‘normal folk’ unfortunately,” he says, wiping his finger clean with a moist napkin.

She lifts a brow at him, sips the red wine, and replies, “So you’re saying you need a little help from the _other_ side,” it’s not a question, but takes a shape as one anyway.

“I’m not saying anything,” Lucifer responds, his forehead creasing. He rubs his chin, lost in his private musing. Reaches for his wine glass, he drains the glass empty. He amends, “But you _may_ have a point. I need something potent, one that does what it’s designed to, with no room for misfire.”

He gazes into the distance. Red-lined lips curving into a smile. A spark of burgeoning ideas twinkling in his tawny eyes. Dessert’s postponed, she supposes. Mazikeen rises from her seat, about to gather the plates.

Lucifer’s hypnotic voice of molten lava halts her from her intention to clean up, “Fetch the phonebook, will you?”

She retrieves the ‘phonebook’—a grimoire with its spine’s stitching loose, the leather cover’s cracked and dry with age, and smells faintly of brimstone, dust and tobacco. It isn’t large in size, nothing like some spell books you’d see on supernatural TV shows. In fact it could be mistaken for a weathered first edition of some English classics. The ‘phonebook’ is what it is; except it contains the names of all magic users, of the past, the present and the future.

Mazikeen hands the grimoire to him. Resumes her cleaning routine. Placing the dirty dishes inside the dishwasher, she refills their glasses with Chateaux Margaux—it will be a waste to let good wine grow warm.

“Marvellous,” he says, cracking the grimoire open. His lips twitching into a thankful smile, as she hands him his glass.

“I doubt most would want to make deals with the devil. Arabelle Crane isn’t answering any of our calls since that angel dust incident,” she counters.

A week in coma, or dying, will impede any social interactions they’re trying to keep from wilting. Crane’s far cheaper than Constantine. One could almost say, Crane might pass herself as Constantine’s twin or sister. Less flirty. And reliable—no worries about being screwed by humans, if it’s Crane.  

He runs a finger through the list, tapping triumphantly at two names. “Perhaps, but Constantine is rather enamoured by you—” Lucifer’s voice trails off, the implication’s not lost on Mazikeen.

“It’s your pants he wanted to get some action with,” she retorts, and emphasises, “ _first_.”

“Tomayto, tomahto,” he motions a free hand, dismissive. “However, your assessment on Constantine isn’t far from my own. His tricks could backfire if he tweaks it without my consent or knowledge. I’m thinking of cousins with a penchant for backwards incantations.”

Mazikeen fetches the dessert from the fridge. Two slices of Red Velvet should be enough. She returns to the table, cakes in tow. “Does Decker know?”

“She’ll only get in the way of things, should she be aware of it,” says Lucifer, composes a message to the cousins with similar names—lots of Z’s in them—and presses the send button. Slipping his phone into his pocket, he closes the grimoire and pushes it aside.

“You’re going to torture a confession out of him?”

“I suspect a boy like him, is impervious to the things of fantastical nature.”

“It’s going to be hard to sell the idea of Hell then.” Mazikeen licks the cream off from the spoon, digs her spoon into the cake, and probes, “And what’s the purpose of Decker while you’re catching the killer?”

Lucifer bites a mouthful of Red Velvet cake, smudges his upper lip with whipped cream. He shrugs. “She does what she does what, gather the breadcrumbs left by the killer.”

“The scuttle work. How _noble_ of you to get her hands dirty,” she notes, clucking her tongue in disapproval.  

He raises a dark brow at her, tipping his head to a side. “Are you objecting to my methods?”

“Me?” Mazikeen’s lips widen to a puckish grin. “Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, maybe this time, Lucifer isn't going to Constantine for help. But if you guesses the "two cousins" as Zatanna Zatara and Zachary Zatara, then you are right. Since they're also part of the magical community in DC and Vertigo.


	7. Allergies, Drugs and A Recording Device.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the corner of her eye, she catches outlines of a couple, dressed entirely in black. Chloe turns to get a better glimpse. Dyed platinum honey-yellow hair. Perpetual pretty resting bitch-face. That’s them, no doubt. Finally, they arrive.

As a study buddy, her routine has gotten simple. There isn’t room or time for her to do anything else, but shower, eat preheated dinner, homework, and sleep. So when she’s home early, she does all three, and hits the books for her actual homework—none of that nonsense study buddy materials Philip has her reading until midnight.

Chloe consults the ‘mystery board’. Notices there are question marks written underneath the words ‘motive’ and ‘method’. Unanswered. Gaps in the crime. _Important_ gaps.

She brings the folders to bed. Switches her crime fighting playlist on. Spreads the folders over her bed, eyeing the titles of each folder. She read everything more than she could count.

Her phone vibrates on the table—a new email from Shelly Kaluta. Subject titled ‘Gordon’s Statement’. It’s an audio file. With a small note attached to it; the _unabridged_ version. Taken a week after the murder took placed. She plugs in her earphones, starts the audio.

“I wasn’t intoxicated,” Gordon protested, “Get that fact into your stupid fucking skull. If you’re the county’s finest, I want Superman and Batman investigating this frame job. They’ll solve this case before you even reach the door.”

A nasally pitched voice—Chloe recognises Detective Tobey Tanner, her father’s co-worker—demanded, “Describe what happened that night.”

Gordon heaved a heavy sigh. “I told you a thousand times, we were hanging out. Ramon, Philly and I. Playing video games all night. Philly brought a six pack of beer and coke. Philly didn’t drink beer, drank coke instead. He had to drive to the airport, to pick his mum or something like that. Philly opened the bottles for us.”

“That’s when you two got drunk,” pointed out another gruff voice—as though he smoked a packet of cigarettes every week—Detective Gary Wilden.

“No,” Gordon fired back, “We only drank two bottles each, not enough to get wasted as fuck. Next thing I knew was Mrs Valdez screamed and woke me up. And I’m lyin’ next to Ramon’s dead body. No memory of that night or whatsoever.”

Tanner asked, scepticism obvious in his voice, “That’s all? You don’t remember anything else?”

“I think I got a call from an unknown number, telling me to strangle Ramon. After Ramon’s all done choking, then I was supposed to strangle him.”

“Son, I’ve met some best liars in my time as a detective. You’re not one of them,” Wilden admonished, and Chloe pictures him shaking his head.

“It’s the truth,” Gordon spat.

“Who called you then?” Tanner asked, probably lifting a brow at their suspect.

“I told you, I _don’t_ know. I can’t remember things I forgot, now can I?” Gordon thundered, slammed his palm on the table.

Unfazed, Tanner monotonously continued, “We checked your phone records and the call was made from a prepaid phone. It could be a random person accidentally dialled your number.”

“That’s _bullshit_. He knew my name. Called me Gordon. Told me to strangle Ramon.”

Wilden, the ‘good cop’ between the two, softened his hardened voice to a fatherly level, “Anything else you remembered now, aside from the vague phone call?”

“The beer tasted funny.”

“Funny how?” Wilden quizzed, his voice sounding a little tired.

“Chemically funny. It doesn’t have a taste. It’s just the beer’s make-up or something. Tasted like the Devil’s Breath. Not the devil’s actual breath—his has that minty fresh. And Ramon’s beer had that roasted peanut scent. But Ramon’s allergic to peanut, Philly said so.”

The audio ends. The Devil’s Breath. It’s something Gordon frequently mentioned. The official reports neglected to mention that. Or the fact that Ramon drank a peanut-flavoured beer, knowing he’s allergic to peanuts. No extensive toxic screen tests.

Chloe supposes, Gordon was the perfect suspect. Everything about Kaluta fits the crime scene. His prints found around Ramon’s neck. The beer bottles laid scattered around the room was enough of a proof of their intoxication. They’re convinced that he did it—no incentive to scratch the surface.

Out of curiosity, she types ‘Devil’s Breath’ into Google. It’s a drug and its scientific name, _Scopolamine_. That word tugs a chord loose from her forgotten memory. Philip’s past essays jump to the forefront of her memory. He wrote a series of essays on mind-altering drugs. There’s a section on Scopolamine; something about its composition and how to recreate it. If there’s someone who could do that among the Aca-Decathlon team, it _must_ be Philip Smoak. There’s no one else.

Crap, she might just break the case wide open. He literally zombified Gordon into doing his bidding. But Gordon’s statement and Philip’s essay are all circumstantial. On its own, there’s no way in hell any prosecutor would want to try this case. Especially on a prominent chemist’s son.

She dials his cell number, waits for it to ring twice. Opens her mouth immediately, forgoes ‘Hello’ and babbles, “It’s _him_. He must have drugged Gordon, triggered Ramon’s allergic reaction to—”

She rambles on her findings for five full minutes, without letting him getting a word in.

“Are you _finished_?” Lucifer asks, his voice reminds her of a cello being strummed in mosaic-adorned mausoleum.

“Y-yeah,” Chloe stammers, and blushes hard. Think _tomato_ red. Chloe’s thankful that this is a phone call—she’s not standing face to face with Lucifer. Or she’d melt into the ground, with the last of her dignity fleeting along her breath.  

“Excellent. You’ll be needing a recording device.”

“For what?”

“So I could _record_ a confession from him,” Lucifer states, enunciating each word slow and carefully, as if Chloe has the understanding of a five year old. “We all have our parts to play, Decker. As it happens, yours are to provide the listening device.”

Glaring at a blurry picture of Lucifer, Chloe retorts, “ _You_? What makes you think he’d confessed?”

“He thinks he’s above the law. That his intellect will save his hide again. I plan to play into his arrogance,” he replies, and Chloe could picture his lips quirking into a smug grin.

Before she could reply, the phone line dies. That bastard hung up. Ugh, so typical of Lucifer. When did Lucifer hijack this investigation? It was Chloe who had the case. Chloe approached him for a partnership. She should be calling the shots. Not ‘It’s not my problem’ Lucifer Morningstar.

But how do you set a trap for a boy who _successfully_ framed another student and escaped from being scrutinised as a suspect? And Chloe _still_ needs help in calculus.

At least Lucifer has a plan. Or some sort of a plan. He didn’t exactly disclose her role in it—other than the recording device.  

She’ll dig out her dad’s old recording device from the basement tomorrow. Chloe just hopes that Lucifer knows what he’s doing. He already survived one almost fatal car-crash. Attempting to obtain a confession from a kid who already killed before—that’s just courting a disaster.

* * *

Chloe still has no idea how on earth Lucifer is planning to get a confession out from Philip Smoak. But she does as he instructed, brought the recording device.

“I checked Philip Smoak’s financial records—well, not his. His mum’s, but you get the idea and she’s pretty loaded. The reason he’s not in prep school was because his records weren’t up to the academy’s standards,” Ella informs, the top of her head barely visible from Chloe’s side of the aisle.

“He’s rejected from the academy where his older siblings studied. I still don’t see how that connects him to Ramon’s death,” Chloe answers, joins Ella at the snack section.

“Guess we gotta dig deeper.”

“How _deep_ is deep?” Chloe sighs, changes the subject. The talk about Philip’s motive is going nowhere. “Does Dan still have Stephen on fashion duty?”

Chloe glances at her watch—it’s almost nine. They’ve been lurking around the gas station for half an hour. And still, no signs of Lucifer and Mazikeen anywhere.

Ella shakes her head, folds her arms over her chest. “No. Stephen’s doing the weather, while Dan pulling double duty with the sport section and drama’s reviews.”

Chloe plucks a couple of snacks off the aisle. There’s one thing she learnt from her dad’s long stakeout nights; always have snacks and plenty of water. “Anything else about them that I should know?” Chloe asks, tipping her chin at the water bottles. She fetches the basket and dumps the snacks into the basket.

Ella grabs two large mineral bottles, hugging them. “Nothing much. Some days, it’s like Stephen was channelling you when you were obsessed with LUX and Lucifer. Asking all sorts of questions like ‘when Lucifer Morningstar moved here’ or ‘do I know him personally’ or ‘did he damn anyone’s soul when he first appeared in school’. Weird questions, but not that weird.”

Chloe holds her finger up, shifting her weight to her dominant leg. “In my defence, Lucifer Morningstar runs a club dedicated to having a good time—which may I add, resembles too much like a real club in downtown. So, I understand where Stephen’s coming from.”

“Maybe,” Ella agrees. “So, Dan’s been asking where you disappeared to. You haven’t write anything for the paper in like forever. I told him your ninety-six year old grandpa died last month. So, another relative dead would be too soon. Which excuse should I use now? Should I tell him you’re chasing another story?”

“Hell, no. Just say that I’m busy.”

“With what?”

“Make up something.”

“Fine, I’ll just say your goldfish, Rita, died—being mauled by the neighbour’s cat.”

“I don’t have a goldfish—” Chloe says, distractedly.

At the corner of her eye, she catches outlines of a couple, dressed entirely in black. Chloe turns to get a better glimpse. Dyed platinum honey-yellow hair. Perpetual pretty resting bitch-face. That’s them, no doubt. Finally, they arrive.

Ella slaps Chloe’s forearm, and mumbles, “They’re here.”

“It’s about damn time,” she mutters, strides to them. Ella returns the cereal box to the aisle, trails after Chloe.

She shouldn’t be surprised by Lucifer. It’s all sleek, tailored suits with him. For a wealthy kid, his wardrobe seems limited. Sure, they’re branded and high end suits. Probably costs more than her dad’s house. She hasn’t seen him outside of a suit before. However, Chloe can’t deny the fact he’s absolutely gorgeous in a suit.

Mazikeen in all black is a delightfully frightening revelation. All that black is not mini black dress. It’s skin-tight leather all around, mostly straps. No sex oozing from her, unlike Gina—but it’s the kind of vibe that still make Chloe wanting to get on her knees, begging for mercy.

And the _jewellery_. All that is wrong with them. Garish, tacky and impractical dollar-signed necklaces. Mismatched hoop earrings on Mazikeen, of different sizes.  

Accessorised with those jewelleries, a sharp-looking boy and a well-dressed girl morph into a budding Italian mobster wannabe and his bling-crazed lover or part-time dungeon master.

“W-what are they wearing?” Ella stage-whispers, covering her mouth. As if Lucifer or Mazikeen couldn’t hear her. Mazikeen rolls her eyes. Lucifer’s lips quirk into a small, amused smile.

“Do you have the device?” Mazikeen’s snake-like vocals break the awkward silence.

“I got it,” Chloe stutters, patting her jacket’s breast pocket. “Why can’t you just use a cellphone to record? All phones can record voices. They even have apps for that.”

“Our cellphones would be his first target to get rid of,” Lucifer replies, his grin broadens.

“He’s _absolutely_ right,” Ella decides, nodding like Lucifer’s words are gospel.

Ella’s supposed to be on Chloe’s side—goddamnit. Chloe shoots a glare at a preoccupied Ella, mouths a silent ‘Traitor’. Her sparkling doe-like eyes are firmly set on Lucifer and Mazikeen.

Chloe pulls the device out from her pocket. Waves it in the air. Shakes away the disbelief building within her. “So, who won the lottery ticket to this?”

Mazikeen gestures a manicured hand over her clothes. “I don’t have any room for that,” she deadpans, her jaw twitching with annoyance.  

“R-right,” Chloe manages, glances at Lucifer and sighs, “That leaves you.”

Lucifer unbuttons his dress shirt. Spreads his shirt wide open; revealing well-defined muscles on his abdomen.

Next to Chloe, Ella’s jaw nearly touches the floor. She blinks, rapid. Brown eyes basically feasting on such eye candy. Fans her neck, discreetly.

A gasp escapes from Chloe’s lips—before she has the chance to swallow it in. Heat migrates from her neck, threatening to take over her face. Her eyes may have linger longer than she liked. Chloe swears, for fraction of a second, she spots a ghostly smile playing on Mazikeen’s lips.

Lucifer clears his throat. “If you’re all done admiring my body,” he says, snapping her and Ella out from a trance, “I like to get on with the plan before sunrise.”

Chloe quickly fixes the microphone onto his chest. His muscles taut underneath her fingers. That brief contact between his skin and hers—tingles her nerves, clogs her throat and dries her mouth. Focus, Chloe. She can fantasise about his body later—or not.

[Chloe always imagined Lucifer’s wiry body looking more like Adam Levine’s. Toned chest; yes. A set of abs; never. And she might be a little too pleased getting that fact wrong.]

“There, all done,” she exclaims, fastening the device on the curves of his spine. “He shouldn’t find that, unless you draw attention to it.”

“Great. You and Lopez should stay in the car. Mazikeen and I can take care of ourselves,” he says, finality in his deep voice leaves no room for Chloe to protest.

“Fine, we’ll stay in the car,” Chloe agrees, but Lucifer and Mazikeen already left the gas station. _Rude._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost at the end. Again, if there are plot holes in the case, I suggest you all just roll with it. Writing cases are hard, I'm thinking of dropping the mysteries next time to save us all time from going through these cases. 'Cause I'm very weak at writing them, and they do get boring for me sometimes.


	8. Hide and Seek.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kitschy necklace, diamond-encrusted rings and golden earrings were Spera’s suggestion. Guaranteed to attract all lowlifes, she told Mazikeen. The high-heeled boots, however, are entirely hers.

The clouds overhead are bleak and shapeless. The park extending its unassuming, precarious tendrils to visitors that should know better. The streetlights are cracked, weathered and illuminate no pathways. Crickets conducting their serenade to the each other underneath the blackened skies. Owls hooting in the distance.

Mazikeen doesn’t put forward a question challenging Lucifer’s sudden desire for a midnight stroll in the park. She hooks an arm around Lucifer’s slender one. Rests her head on his shoulder blade. Keeps her ears alert for suspicious sounds.

Each step she takes, rattles the jewelleries adorning on her neck and ears. Not that Mazikeen wanted them in the first place. Lucifer requested her to be mobile in her clothing. Or at least wear clothes that she wouldn’t miss.

The kitschy necklace, diamond-encrusted rings and golden earrings were Spera’s suggestion. Guaranteed to attract all lowlifes, she told Mazikeen. The high-heeled boots, however, are entirely hers.

“He’s closer than we thought,” she says, in her native ancient tongue. The language of Lilith’s broods when spoken by human-like tongues are coiled with crudeness. Vowels and constants that one would equate jagged rocks, or the prickling thorns of cacti. Discordant that even the demons find the language beneath them. Regardless of its abrasiveness, Lucifer welcomes her words as though it’s harmonic symphony strung by the angels’ harps.

“He has integrated himself into this world. For the sake of destroying you,” Mazikeen adds, glancing at Lucifer.

His lips curl into amusement-lined smile. “I don’t expect anything less from Big Brother,” replies Lucifer in the Lilim’s patois. With his deep voice, none of the vowels or constants retains its sharp edges, only cursive melodies spoken.  

“He’s here, walking—skimming down Decker’s path, but he knows more than the clueless blonde. He has set his sight on LUX.”

Lucifer Morningstar scoffs. “Amenadiel was never original. But he’s stubbornly determined, I’ll give him that.”

“You know he’ll issue a challenge soon. A duel to the death,” Mazikeen pauses. Drawing a needless breath, she exhales deep. The words escape from her throat, it’s all wisp and worried tone she’s not accustomed to use. “Without the Morningstar, you won’t stand a chance. Even with the aid of magic tricks,” she confesses the heavy apprehension fraying her nerves—the one she hide so skilfully even from Lucifer, her Lord, her Master.

“Just our luck that we have this case, don’t we?” Lucifer says, his voice dips lower, affectionate. The smile curving his lips is neither impish nor charmed. It’s soft all around, a hint of gratitude sparkling in those amber eyes. It’s breathtakingly rare and Mazikeen can’t help to mirror it on her crooked lips.

The moment of tenderness between them has always been fleeting. So it passes without any protest. Mazikeen slips into her normal self—loyal servant Mazikeen ever ready to serve. And she ponders, as she does in a predicated manner. “Until the challenge is issued, what is your plan?”

“A diversion,” he simply says, his golden-amber eyes gleaming that mischievous twinkle. “I’ll leave the details to your discretion.”

A good twenty minutes of pacing leisurely, Mazikeen hears a faint click in the darkness. She knows—could tell—the sound of a gun’s safety pin shut. A blade-edged smile creeping on her face, brief. She schools her features into a practiced frightened expression.

Their mugger, stands about her height, about an inch shaved off six feet even. A dark blue bandana obscuring the lower half of his face. Dark sunglasses shielding his eyes. Dark jacket, dark jeans and unsurprisingly a nondescript dark cap.  

“Give me all your money,” he demands, his voice modulated to be deeper. “Wallets, watches, cellphones. Now,” he instructs, his artificial voice’s too flat. Not tinged with the nervousness that comes with adrenaline rush, human’s reactive fight or flight response.

“No one gets to die if you hand over your things.”

“You came with a gun. You don’t come into the park, carrying a gun without the intention to use it,” carelessly slips out from Mazikeen’s lips. Her garbled words that barely dent the mugger’s fixation on their jewelleries.

The mugger cocks his gun at her. His other hand holds up an opened backpack. Motions the gun at the back. “Throw them in here now,” he orders.

Her fingers quiver with effort—a three second delay getting into her part—and she clams her throat up. Passing off as a mute in acts requiring fear is far believable on Mazikeen’s part. Her vocals are too coarse, to tremble in the same vein as mortal panicky woman do.

She yanks her necklace off. Removes the ridiculous earrings. Lumps them together with her phone. Tosses them into his backpack.

Mazikeen isn’t a wordsmith, nor is her tongue gracefully silver. She makes do with her body—lets her limbs, muscles, veins and skin do the talking for her. She lifts both arms high, eyes cast down on the ground.

Lucifer uses stale negotiation lines from a recent Criminal Minds episode. He works to remove the dollar-signed necklace. The Rolex watch is next to depart his wrist. His wallet joins the mix, as does his phone. And Lucifer holds his arms up in surrender.

Like him, her movements are rehearsed—as the scene of a mugging unfolded in her mind plenty while she sat quietly in the therapist’s office. A wrong move—too fast, too slow, too out of character—will betray their plan before it comes to fruition.

Their thief zips the backpack close. Drapes the backpack’s straps over his shoulders. The gun still pointing at Mazikeen’s chest.

“One, two, three—” Lucifer mutters, so low his words might have been lost to the nightly gentle breeze.

Mazikeen ceases her cowering. Casts the air of a frightened, helpless girl away, like a snake sheds its skin. Straightens her spine. Mazikeen squares her shoulders, drops her hands to her sides. Sets her sight on the mortal.

Lucifer cocks his head sideways. A forced grin playing at the corners of his lips. His dark brow nearly touches his forehead. “Let’s stop playing hide and seek. We’re too old for that, aren’t we?”

“ _Shut_ up.” The mugger shifts his gun at Lucifer. Takes another step closer to Lucifer. The gun’s muzzle in line with Lucifer’s forehead. “One more word and I’ll shoot her,” he tries, springs out another gun from his back pocket and turns it on Mazikeen.

“You’ve been _hiding_ for a long time, haven’t you, Philip? Wearing a mask of normality, knowing you’re not the same as everyone. Chemistry was the one that could arouse you like no other,” Lucifer remarks, pays no attention to the threat. Sticks his hands into his pockets. Glimpses at his shoes. His gazes dart to everywhere, but the mugger.

Lucifer’s hair, peroxide yellow and shining, shakes lightly. Moonlight streaks his cheekbones and jawline, transitory, captivates her and Philip. He teases, light and mocking, “I don’t pretend to understand this obsession you have with chemistry.” Lucifer stops to spare Philip an apathetic glance, a grin of approval and continues, “But we all have our _kinks_ , the strange, and the mundane.”

Pulling his bandana down, Philip snaps, “You talk a lot, Morningstar. Is there a point to your sudden bravado?” He scans his wrist watch, mumbling, “I need to wrap this up, in ten minutes.”

Lucifer nods, turns to Philip. “You’re quite the brilliant man, Philip. I admit that I knew it was all your doing, but I am still at lost at how you achieved it,” he wheedles, “You could reveal the details of your first crime to us, since neither Mazikeen nor I would be alive after this.”

“Since you asked nicely, consider this your last request,” Philip returns, his voice hitches in excitement, “It was just too easy. Ramon never even suspected anything until it was too late. Gordon, he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed.”

Philip Smoak bares his true colours to Lucifer. His sins, his treachery, his manipulation—all of it—spoken in utter carelessness his arrogance indulges. Mazikeen resists the temptation to smirk. It’s too premature to squander the victory before they could savour it.  

“Any last words, Morningstar? How about your pretty girlfriend?”

No sooner he says that, Philip fires both guns into Lucifer and Mazikeen. Empties both clips into them.

Bullets pelt into Mazikeen. Metal droplets of destruction penetrating her flesh, puncturing her organs. One stray bullet grazes her skin. Another pierces her empty eye socket, bounces in her skull. She spits it out.

Six bullets tear into Lucifer’s face. Several more batter his torso. Lucifer rubs his chest, casual. Probes his dress shirt for holes, Lucifer sighs. His amber eyes flicker to Philip, a half-hearted smile playing on the corners of his mouth. The open bullet wounds healing, eager to restore his handsome face.

“I’m not mad that you tried to eliminate Valdez, us, in the pursuit of your desires. And I definitely do not condone your ambitions,” Lucifer says, buttoning his jacket up. Lucifer takes one step forward. Rubs his jaw.

Philip’s attempts to flee is futile. Mazikeen runs, a blur in the darkness, and catches him easily. He struggles to release himself from her grip; his cap falls to the ground—messy blonde hair sticking out. His dark sunglasses fly off from his face—brown eyes widening. 

“But it upsets me terribly that you framed Gaudium, an employee of mine, for your crime. You touched the LUX Club,” Lucifer remarks. He bends over, picking up a broken cufflink. Inspects the cufflink. His lips flatten to a thin-lipped smile. “By extension, you hurt my feelings. Gaudium’s vital to me and you just ensured that he won’t be available to me, seeing how he’s housed in jail for life.” He tosses the cufflink into a nearby trash bin.

Mazikeen twists his arms, not hard enough to pop his shoulders from their sockets. Kicks the back of his knees, sending him kneeling to the ground. Her fingers splaying over his exposed neck, resting above his jugular veins. The other hand grasping the back of his neck. Holds Philip in place.

Lucifer traces a finger over Mazikeen’s boot. A touch of decorous fondness, steadfast yearning and work. Enough to satiate the thirst blooming in her chest, in her stomach, on her lips. His slim fingers grip her blade’s handle, and he unsheathes it.

“You have no guilt I can exploit.” Lucifer brandishes the knife in front of them. Slices a thin cut on his upturned palm. Torn skin healing, as he lifts the blade up. His presence stretching shadows on Philip. “I still have some tricks left.”

Lucifer bends forward. Hooks a finger underneath Philip’s chin, slanting his head upwards. An acerbically candid grin graces his lips. His eyes twinkling amber, against the dark, like blots of golden on black canvass. Lucifer leans, that his lips nearly touches Philip’s earlobe.

“Ekam mih rygnuh dna ytsriht,” he whispers, harsh and final. Lucifer draws back. Brings down the blade on Philip’s t-shirt, slitting the shirt open. Baring Philip’s pale firm chest to the midnight air.

“Secure his mouth, Mazikeen. I want total silence.”

Mazikeen complies with Lucifer’s request. Stuffs Philip’s bandana into his mouth. Then covers her hand over his mouth.

“Thank you,” Lucifer says, smiling. He directs a finger at Philip’s forehead. The tip of his index finger glows, stark and fiery. Tiny angry flames flicker, spitting fire into the air. Lucifer carves a letter, H, on Philip’s chest.

Philip howls for muffled mercy. Mazikeen presses her hand over his mouth, hard. His face will not save in under her force. But no sound will escape from his throat. She releases him. Flings him to the ground, as if he weights no heavier than a paper weight.

“That hunger and thirst you experienced now, will be multiplied a tenfold, in Hell. It’s not a pleasant experience, I promised you that, but it’s a fitting punishment.”

“W-what are you?” Philip croaks, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“You’re a _smart_ boy, Philip. Put two and two together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always enjoy writing Lucifer and Mazikeen in action. But this is still small scale stuff. The bigger works are reserved appropriately based on the strength of Lucifer's opponents. Since Philip is a human, nothing fancy from Lucifer or Mazikeen.


	9. Voices and Bullet Holes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe’s brows furrow, she inclines closer to the radio. Mazikeen’s voice wavers over the radio’s speakers. Hoping that the narrower the gap between her and the speaker, Mazikeen’s voice will become clearer—and Chloe would magically understand Lucifer’s conversation with his personal assistant.

Chloe’s brows furrow, she inclines closer to the radio. Mazikeen’s voice wavers over the radio’s speakers. Hoping that the narrower the gap between her and the speaker, Mazikeen’s voice will become clearer—and Chloe would magically understand Lucifer’s conversation with his personal assistant.

“That’s not English,” Ella helpfully supplies.  

Chloe resists the urge to roll her eyes and sigh at the same moment. She opts for a polite neutral expression and says, “I _can_ tell.”

They fall back into silence. Ella tears the bag of chips open. Passes it to Chloe. Then reaches out for a bag of roasted peanuts. Scoping a handful of peanuts, Ella leans backwards into her seat and starts eating.

Lucifer’s smooth as silk voice is clearer than Mazikeen’s, even affectionate. Which is a first for Chloe’s ears. All she ever got from Lucifer Morningstar is condescension—and maybe, sarcasm. Now if only Chloe could understand. She might be sitting on blackmail material—and she doesn’t even know it.

“Do you think they know what they’re doing?” Ella asks, wiping her fingers with a wet tissue.

“Who?” Chloe fiddles with the knobs, trying to reduce the static noise.

“Lucifer and Maze.”

“Yeah,” Chloe says, giving up with the receiver. Folding her arms, she leans her head against the headrest. Closes her eyes, Chloe releases a sigh and explains, “They have to. They’re the ones who came up with this plan.”

There’s a line spoken in English. The voice’s male—must be Philip’s—way deeper than she remembers. Chloe sits up straight, turns the volume louder. Both Ella and Chloe move closer to the radio. Straining to hear the conversation.

“Should we call the cops now?” Ella asks, her voice barely a whisper.

“Not yet. They haven’t got the confession.” Chloe presses her finger against her lips. She twists her head around, so her dominant ear faces the speaker.

Her mouth forms an ‘O’ shape. Ella’s shoulders slump in defeat.

Gunshots. Ella baulks on her seat, squeaking. Ella clams one hand over her mouth, the other over her chest. Chloe flinches. Unlocks the car’s door.

“ _Chloe_!” Ella latches her iron grip on Chloe’s wrist. Panic forming in her huge brown eyes. “Where are you going? They told us to stay in the car.”

Chloe knows better than to try her luck prying her wrist free from Ella’s hand. “We heard gunshots. They could be bleeding, or dying. They need our help,” Chloe says, slow so Ella could understand.

The realisation sinks in, fast. Ella unlocks her own door, one foot hanging outside the door. “What are we waiting for?”

Chloe shakes her head. “ _No_. You stay. If I don’t call you in 5 minutes, call the cops.”

“Good idea,” Ella agrees, drawing her leg back into the car. Several seconds later, Ella’s big voice echoes in the empty parking lot. She jogs to Chloe’s spot, hand outstretched and says, “Chloe, wait. Your phone.”

“Shit, I almost forgot. Now back into the car, Ella. Lock the door,” Chloe instructs. Then she sprints into the barely lit park. Her heart’s pounding against her ribcage. Blood rushing to her ears. Her legs are about to give way. Chloe should really step her fitness up. She’s appallingly unfit.

[Blessed Lucifer for his poor decision to dye his hair peroxide blonde. His hair marks his spot like a beacon in the dark. Not that she’ll ever tell him that. Chloe still thinks that colour looks a bit strange on him.]

They’re squatting over a red backpack. Lucifer snaps his wrist watch on. Mazikeen slips her rings on, wears the necklace over her neck and fixes the earrings back.

“I heard gunshots,” Chloe shrieks, in between inhaling sorely needed air and hunching over, “Are you okay?” She straightens to her full height, sweat dripping down her forehead. Swipes the sweat off with the back of her hand, Chloe eyes Lucifer’s jacket for bullet holes.

“Are you hurt? Bleeding?” Chloe continues, her hands trailing all over the suit’s glossy surface. Some part of her, is acutely aware of how she’s invading Lucifer Morningstar’s space. Lucifer who makes it clear he doesn’t like anyone too close to him—unless it’s Mazikeen. Like her body doesn’t even pay attention to her mind. She continues to search for bullet holes.

“We are _fine_ ,” says Lucifer, in his clipped British accent. Swats Chloe’s hands away.

[Look, she just heard gunshots. GUNSHOTS. Not one stray bullet. Not two. But the hail of metal rainstorm kind. And she’d heard stories of other detectives failing to realise they got a stray bullet until it’s too late. So, Chloe’s not going to make that stupid mistake. The jacket has no holes—maybe a loose thread, but that’s barely a hole.]

Lucifer clears his throat, and remarks, “However your microphone didn’t survive the ordeal.” The cracked microphone dangles from Lucifer’s hand. Drops it into Chloe’s upturned palm.

Her dad’s so going to kill if he knows what happened to the recording device’s microphone. But that’s not important now. Chloe turns her attention to Lucifer, quirking a brow. “What about Philip?”

“He skedaddled like a frightened poodle, forgotten his goods.” Lucifer waves his fingers vaguely into the direction of darkness-plagued pathway. A smirk twisting his lips.

“How it happened?”

Lucifer shrugs, half-hearted. Rolling his striking half-lidded blue eyes. “Does it matter? You already got his confession. Now, I’m famished,” he says, sneaking a quick peek at his watch.

Mazikeen picks up the backpack from the ground. Shoves the backpack at Chloe. Slips a hand into Lucifer’s breast pocket, she takes out her smartphone. “What would you like to have? Italian?”

“Japanese,” Lucifer replies, his smirk broadens.

Mazikeen remains expressionless. Mazikeen’s default expression for everything.

Lucifer opens his pace, wide and casual. Starts to walk away from Chloe. Mazikeen falls into the same pacing rhythm as Lucifer’s. Lucifer raises up one hand in the air. Doesn’t turn over his shoulder to look at her and waves. “Good night, Decker. Get yourself and Lopez safely home.”

At least he’s concerned of their safety—oh, shit. Ella. It must been five minutes and no call from Chloe. Chloe dials Ella’s number, yells into the phone. “Did you call the cops? No? Thank God. Nope, they’re fine. I’ll tell you in the car.”

And Chloe returns to the car, running.


	10. The Morningstar Mystery.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe Decker hit the ‘play’ button again. The gunshots were clear. But Lucifer was totally fine. Mazikeen too, unhurt. Chloe saw the bullet casings littered the ground. But no sign of bullets hitting the ground or anything else. How did Lucifer avoid being shot at close range?

Chloe Decker hit the ‘play’ button again. The gunshots were clear. But Lucifer was totally fine. Mazikeen too, unhurt. Chloe saw the bullet casings littered the ground. But no sign of bullets hitting the ground or anything else. How did Lucifer avoid being shot at close range?

[To be frank, the question should be ‘What is Lucifer Morningstar?’ Is he some kind of magician? Maybe he aspired to be David Blaine? Or an illusionist, perhaps? If not an illusionist, Lucifer probably is gearing up to be a mentalist, like Patrick Jane.]

There had to be something Chloe missed. Considering Lucifer and Mazikeen seemed to favour speaking a language Chloe never heard of. She repeated the first portion of last night’s conversation.

Yeah, she got nothing. It barely resembled any foreign language available to her. She had resorted to Google for a translation. Came up with ‘zero result’.

She got one trick left to try. She cut a portion of the audio file. Renamed it ‘Unknown’ and uploaded it to a language forum.

She left her desk to refill her coffee. The dinging sound of replies brought her back to her laptop. Setting her mug down, Chloe slipped into her chair. Clicked on the replies, reading each one.

Most wrote answers Chloe had expected; sounded like made-up language or gibberish. It could be a fictional language from a favourite book; like Klingon or Tolkien’s many languages.

One user, KeeperofBooks, managed to pin down the language being Proto-Afrosiatic. However, the words are all over the place—the words seemed to come from different eras, pre-AD and no language similar to it. His best guess was Elamite. But even then, he’s only three percent convinced it’s Elamite.

User TrenchCoatLover succeeded in narrowing it down to Proto-Semitic, possible Hattic or Hattian. Or it could be Eblaite.

Another user, ThePriest75, had elaborated his answer to include ‘his theory of a language spoken by demons’. Right, too far out.

She did a quick background check on ThePriest75. Nearly every post mentioned the same thing; demons are living among them. That’s one whack job she won’t put her high hopes on him being right.

“You’re studying languages?” Stephen asked, standing over her shoulders. He motioned at his ears, at Chloe’s half-blank, half-surprised expression.

“No. I heard a couple spoke this in the park. Was curious to see what language it was,” Chloe lied, “So far, I don’t have luck—”

“It is an extinct language. A subset of Proto-Semitic language closely resembled Old Aramaic,” Stephen mentioned, authoritative and confidence vibrating in his deep voice, “But it’s not Eblaite, Elamite or Hattic.” He paused, his dark brow furrowed. “The language’s highly rare even back in those days. Said to be the tongues of demons.”

“You know this how?” Chloe questioned, lifted a brow. Crossed her arms over her chest. “I mean, it sounds complex and everything. Not even linguist to answer.”

“I spent my time reading a lot of journals,” Stephen answered, forced a smile on his lips. His fingers fiddled with his sleeve.

“Oh,” was all Chloe said, but she could tell the lies coming out from Stephen’s mouth.

“He’s here,” Ella informs, jerking Chloe out from her musing. They climb out from the car, joining Shelly Kaluta outside.

The prison gates are barbed and coiled wires. It stretches for miles across the barren concrete and cement of a landscape. The midday’s unrelenting heat blurs her sight. Chloe squints to get a better look. Raises her hands to block the harsh sun’s glare. At the far end of the gate, a figure dragging his feet towards them.  

As he draws closer, Gordon Kaluta flips a finger in the guard tower’s direction. All the way until the gate opens and closes behind Gordon.

He’s taller than she expected, despite the hunched shoulders. Though not as tall as Lucifer or Stephen. But still has an inch over Mazikeen. His short hair all greasy and sticking out wildly. Dark bags lining underneath his brown eyes. His t-shirt’s crumpled, his jeans all wrinkly. Except for his spot-clean converse shoes.

Chloe nearly chokes on her breath—he smell awful, like wet soggy socks. Pinches her nose before settling on breathing through her mouth.  

Gordon extends a hand out, lips twisting into a smirk. “So we finally meet face to face. You’re a cutie, huh.”

“Chloe Decker,” she replies, nudging Ella with her elbow. Ella obliges with a polite ‘hello’ wave and adds, “Ella Lopez.”

“So you’re not bad, in getting me out. My own Lois Lane. And her Jimmy Olsen.”

“Where’s your manners, Gaudium?” Shelly says, whacking the back of Gordon’s head. To Chloe, she sheepishly smiles, “Gaudium’s his nickname.”

Gordon rubs his head, narrowing his eyes at Shelly. He hisses, “You don’t need to hit me hard, Spera. I just got out of prison.”

Shelly rolls her eyes, hands on both hips. She tips her chin at Chloe. “Get over yourself. Thank the ladies.”

Gordon parts a genuine smile. “Thank you,” he says to Chloe. Points a finger at Ella, he expresses a second’s flash of gratitude, “You too.”

Chloe shakes her head lightly. “Oh, don’t thank me. Thank Lucifer.”

“Lucifer?” His brown eyes widen in surprise. He turns to Shelly, for confirmation.

“Yeah. He helped to get the confession that exonerated you from the crime,” Ella reaffirms, “Otherwise we couldn’t prove you were framed.”

“So, what’s your first act of freedom?” Ella questions, getting into the driver’s seat.

“I’m starving. Let’s hit McD.”

* * *

Linda Martin doesn’t know when the arrangement’s made. It happens, silent and unassuming. ‘Anytime’ morphs into ‘every Thursday’, at 2 o’clock. On the dot, Mazikeen Smith enters and does her thing. Usually, it’s either her homework, club assignments or light reading. At odd times, Mazikeen starts devising new designs for Linda’s office—of course, Linda gets the final say.

There would be a nice but death-related piece appearing on her desk one day. A post it note stuck to it, with a simple ‘Yes/No’ written in manuscript form. Linda circles ‘yes’ and the piece stays on the exact spot she found them in the first place. A ‘no’ sees the item disappear and a newer one takes the former’s place.   

[She vetoed a lot of Mazikeen’s macabre ornaments. That _fake_ Thomas Lawrence’s painting—courtesy of Mazikeen’s hidden artistic side, or serious kleptomania problem—of _Satan Summoning His Legions_ was a compromise.]

“Have a seat and make yourself comfortable. Like always,” Linda says, doesn’t look up from her reports, as the door creaks open. There’s no use in staring at a girl whose face tends to be non-expressive.

“I didn’t know you were a fan of Fuseli,” quips a male’s voice—so deep that it might as well shake the ground and her office’s on 2nd floor—in a clipped British accent.   

“Fuseli who?” is all Linda manages, blinking rapidly. Her mind, a blank white sheet. She drops her pen—it rolls across the table and stops short from falling over the edge. A jerk reaction of her knee against her desk sends it tumbling onto the floor.

His short hair, combed backwards, is bleached yellow. His eyes are blue as iridescent azurite stones. He’s decked in a well-cut navy blue suit and black leather shoes.

[Incredibly good-looking—if he isn’t a student and older, Linda might be tempted to ask him out on a date, or a releasing pent up sexual energy session—wait, _fuck_ no! _Focus_. She’s here to provide therapy, not to entertain the idea of whatever she was thinking before.]

Linda knows it’s the final student she’s yet to meet from the five involved with the McCord’s case. Lucifer Morningstar.

Quite frankly, Linda has an image of a kid prowling the school’s halls in all black gothic fashion and supporting copious amount of eyeliner. Not this. Smart-looking like him.

“Henry Fuseli,” he answers, as if the name rings any bells. He points his chin at the wall behind Linda, “I can assure you, though Fuseli was tickled to see Death was anything but like the figure he painted.”

Linda turns around to glance at the wall. Takes it the fake Henry Fuseli’s painting framed over her file cabinet. Satan and Death fighting each other and Sin in between. She hasn’t seen the painting before—how could she missed it? It is kinda large, taking a huge space on the wall. 

His dark brows furrow, lips curving into an amused smile. Rubs his chin absentmindedly. “That chubby chin is an exaggeration,” he points out.

Linda straightens up in her chair, gathering her notepad and the fallen pen. “So, before we start, I would like to get an assessment—”

He snaps his fingers once—loud that Linda nearly jumps out from her skin. His head shakes from left to right. His red lips pursed into a disapproval line. The air around them grows denser, heavy with warm air.

“I’m not interested in acquiring help. I know I’m not shaken by the incident with Mister Gilbert,” he retorts, calm and dreary intertwining in his tone. He clasps both hands behind his back. He looms over Linda menacingly, more so than she’s sitting and her eyes are up to his lower abdomen level.

“I still have to asses you in my professional capacity as a licensed therapist,” Linda states, “it’s your choice if you want to talk about it or ignore it. Either way, you’re required by the school to attend sessions with me,” tries to keep a burgeoning fear from trembling her nasal voice.  

“I’ll participate this under one condition,” he says, after a long pause of silence. Holds his index finger up, “I don’t have to say _anything_ but you’re allowed to ask me questions, I’ll answer them truthfully.”

“I can work with that,” Linda agrees, nodding curtly. She notes the temperature in the room quickly returns normal. She motions him to sit at the couch. “Let’s start with the basic. What’s your actual name?”

He doesn’t sit. Peers close at the Fuseli’s painting, instead. Shoves his hands into his trousers’ pockets. There’s a faraway look in his odd azure-like eyes. Weary, ancient eyes that seen all. In that passing moment, he seems to embody both air of ancient mind and a youth’s visage—two contradicting imaginings.  

“Lucifer Morningstar,” he simply confirms. Without averting his gaze from the painting. His eyes seemed fixed to Satan and his smooth double chin.

“Like the biblical devil?”

He rubs his chin once. Lucifer chuckles, “Yes.”

“Okay, Lucifer. How are you feeling today?”

Their eyes meet. Linda holds her breath, automatic, as she waits for his answer. He moves away from the wall and the painting to the couch. Still standing, Lucifer’s lips split into a lopsided genuine grin.  

“ _Bored_ , Doctor. I’m _appallingly_ bored.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, finally Linda meets Lucifer. And I deliberately chose to include Henry Fuseli's painting, Satan encount'ring Death, Sin interposing (ca. 1793-96), in Linda's office, chosen and sneaked into the office by Mazikeen, as a shout-out for Lucifer meeting Death in the comics. See if you can spot another Constantine cameo again. So far, that's for this story. Until next time!


End file.
